


Oh, These Games We Play

by Oh_Shiny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Shiny/pseuds/Oh_Shiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You must feel the loss of you father greatly.”</p><p>Sansa meets his eyes and they shine brighter than the sun, sparks of ire flickering forth and leaving him wanting more. “As great as the loss you feel for your right hand, I’m sure.” Jaime laughs loudly at her response. Sansa Stark has just become interesting—very interesting.</p><p>He leans into her, lowering his mouth to her ear and earning the attention of more eyes cast in their direction. “Would you like to leave?” he asks in a whisper.</p><p>---------</p><p>In which Joffrey dies in the Battle of the Blackwater, the Red Wedding never occurs, Tywin has Tommen release Jaime from the Kingsguard, and the Starks learn how to play the game as they form a rocky alliance with the Lannisters against the growing Targaryen threat across The Narrow Sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, These Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that I was fiddling with a couple of years ago. Recently found the first two pages on a memory stick and thought I'd turn it into a one shot. So, a sprinkling of porn with a sprinkling of plot? Either way I hope y'all enjoy. ;)

Jaime hadn’t noticed her when he’d first returned to Kings Landing; she was proficient at remaining forgettable with her head bowed and shoulders slumped as she drifted through the gardens or halls. On occasion he’d wondered who the meek young lady was but the thought never lingered long enough in his mind for him to ever bother investigating it. When the remainder of her family arrived she seemed to come back to life a little, and he had realised that the girl he crossed paths with every morning on the way to the hall where he broke his fast was indeed, Sansa Stark.

There are differences from when he’d seen her at Winterfell, of course. Her hips have widened, her waist diminished some and her bust filled out. She’s taller, her face more mature yet still so pale and her hair has grown much longer. They aren’t the things that stood out to Jaime the most—that would be her eyes; those damn Tully eyes don’t seem to shine as bright as they used to and her smiles that had once been wide were now a faint curve of her lips. He couldn’t help but ponder; just what in the hells had happened to Sansa Stark while her brother had held him captive?

So now he watches her, studies her mannerisms whenever she is in his view and over time he discovers a young woman that gives a slight flinch when someone brings a hand near her back; who holds a fascination for birds and sits with her head tilted up at the sky to watch as they flitter from tree to tree. She possesses a sweet tooth, never touches the wine that’s served with meals but unconsciously sinks her teeth into her bottom lip whenever lemon cakes are presented.

He can admit to himself that the amount of time he spends observing her is odd and tonight is no different. Where she once would have been one of the first young ladies to acquire a dance partner she instead stands near a corner of the room, half hiding behind her elder brother and he contemplates whether or not he should ask her to stand up with him. Really, what harm could it do? Their families are supposed to be allies now, after all, and if he were to be even more honest with himself it would annoy his sister to no end.

Jaime smiles; yes, Cersei will be thoroughly displeased if he were to dance with the Stark girl which means nothing would make him happier than to twirl around the room alongside her. There is absolutely no denying the fact that he would use Sansa to get at his sister and with that he set his goblet of wine down and skirts around the crowd of people until he finally comes upon the self-proclaimed King of the North.

“Stark,” he greets with a small bow of his head.

Robb levels him with a curious stare, his brows arching above eyes that are identical to his sisters. “Is there something I can do for you?” _Kingslayer_. The unspoken insult hangs between them just like it had with his late father but if Jaime is well versed in anything, it’s smiling at those that think their honour to be above his own.

“I was hoping you’d relinquish your sister for a short time. I’m sure she’d prefer to dance rather than spend the night huddled in a corner.” Another raise of eyebrows. “I promise to be on my best behaviour,” Jaime adds with a wink.

“My sister is of age to choose with whom she dances; you may ask her yourself.”

Well, this has become somewhat more uncomfortable. It is one thing to ask for a dance and have the young wolf deny him his request but it’s quite another to be denied by the lady herself. There’s no backing out now, though, as Robb moves to the side, turning his back on the pair while Sansa keeps her gaze somewhere in the vicinity of Jaime’s chest.

He offers her his hand, giving her nothing more than a simple, “Well?” Slowly her eyes travel up to meet his. She doesn’t blush, does not try to act coy and there is no smile. She does place her hand lightly within his while giving an assenting nod of her head. Jaime turns, his hand folding around Sansa’s and bringing them to rest at his back as he leads her into the middle of the dancing couples. It has been a long time since he’s danced, any uncertainty that he may have felt about possibly making an ass out of himself kept at bay by the large quantities of wine he’s guzzled down throughout the evening.  

Thankfully, it appears the gods look upon him favourably this night for Sansa is graceful enough for the both of them. Jaime can feel eyes upon them as they move together and he knows their thoughts as if they are all speaking them aloud. _He held her hand as he led her._ He had, and without giving a thought to the gossip that will now follow Sansa wherever she goes. _It will do her no good to be connected with the likes of him._ Jaime snorts, probably not but he’d wager that he could get her to smile. _Just what do you think you’re doing, brother?_ He catches his sister’s gaze—his beautiful, whorish, deceitful sister—and feels so completely satisfied by the irritation that briefly crosses over her face.

Their dance ends with a lift, one that Jaime has trouble preforming with only one working hand. She doesn’t recoil when he pushes his gold hand firmly against her waste as he concentrates on balancing her for the few seconds he holds her in the air. Sansa lands lightly on the balls of her feet and he releases a discrete breath of relief; it would do no good to embarrass one’s self when you are trying to make another irate with jealousy.

This time Jaime keeps his hand to himself as he leads them from the crowd, Sansa following behind him until they come to the outskirts of the room. “You look very pretty tonight,” he remarks for no other reason than to make small talk despite the truth of it. Still, there is no smile and no blush. She replies with a “thank you,” that is so desolately hollow it leaves Jaime staring at her in silence. 

Just what was he supposed to do with her now? He should bid her a goodnight. He should remove himself because her lack of reaction to him or anything else is starting to crawl beneath his skin. Within seconds he’s forgotten his intention to make Cersei envious and instead has turned them all towards Sansa. He wants to pull something from her and Jaime had never been one to deny himself these small urges. “You must feel the loss of you father greatly.”

Sansa meets his eyes and they shine brighter than the sun, sparks of ire flickering forth and leaving him wanting more. “As great as the loss you feel for your right hand, I’m sure.” Jaime laughs loudly at her response. Sansa Stark has just become interesting—very interesting.

He leans into her, lowering his mouth to her ear and earning the attention of more eyes cast in their direction. “Would you like to leave?” he asks in a whisper.

There’s no answer, she simply turns and passes through the great arches that lead to the gardens. Was he to follow? Does she want him to? Curiosity has gotten the better of him and Jaime finds himself trailing after Sansa as she guides them further away from the gathering, where the shrubs give way to much greater bushes and the night swallows the light from the Keep. She knows her way well, weaving her way between the greenery and following paths that he’s never stepped foot on. Where was she taking him?

“Do you like apples?” Her question startles him in the darkness and he tracks the faint outline of her form, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “I—uh, yes.”

Sansa stops and reaches for the branch that hangs above her; an apple tree that he never knew existed until now. She rises up onto the tip of her toes, arm stretching to the limit and her fingers twitching with the effort while seeking for something that will never be within her reach. Taking pity on the young woman, Jaime steps up behind her, his front brushing against her back as he plucks the apple from its home and places it into her hand.

“Do you like apples, Sansa?” She stiffens before him; _second reaction of the night_ , he thinks. Now she was starting to seem more human in his presence and Jaime can feel that unexplainable want building within him. He wants to toy with her, wants to play a game and see how far he can take it. He wants to see the fire in her eyes that surfaced when he’d mentioned her father. Why? He doesn’t know and he isn’t entirely sure that he wants to, he just knows that anything is better than the emptiness Cersei has left him with.

Sansa backs away from him, the crunch of the apple crisp and clean as she bites into it. “Why are you here?” she asks as she chews. How very unladylike, talking with her mouth full. Jaime clucks his tongue in mock reproach as he leans his shoulder against the trunk of the tree. “I could ask you the very same thing.”

“No.”

“No?”

Sansa takes another bite. “You followed me here, not the other way round.”

“Ah, but I am the one that asked if you wanted to leave,” he readily points out.

“I never agreed.”

“True, but what sort of man would I be if I let you roam around out here on your own?”

“One that is respectful of someone else’s privacy?”

Jaime chuckles. “Unfortunately, respectfulness is a quality I sorely lack.”

She lets the half eaten apple roll from her fingers and fall to the ground. “What do you want?” she queries, voice soft yet unwavering. There’s something more to her question, he is sure. It seems to encompass the here and now, extending out to his life as a whole and he has no idea how to answer her because he simply doesn’t know.

Jaime rapidly feels as if he’s losing ground, losing control of the situation, but refuses to become ruffled by her. His determination to regain the control he was sure he’d obtained over the situation surges. He had approached her, he’d asked her to dance and they are here because of him and the actions he’s taken. He pushes off the tree and closes the distance between them. Sansa stands straight and stiff as he wraps his arm around her, the breath from her parted lips breezing across his jaw while he slowly grazes the tips of his fingers down her spine. She arches, trying to escape his touch and only succeeds in pushing herself against his stomach and chest. _Third reaction_.

She could object to such impropriety, but she doesn’t. She could leave now and he wouldn’t follow, but she stays. She remains pressed against him and once again Jaime trails his fingers down her back. Sansa shifts slightly— _fourth,_ he counts—while letting out a puff of breath that is sweet, smelling of apple, and Jaime considers for the first time that he may not be the only one playing a game. He holds her to him, his hand now curled over the swell of her hip. With his head lowered, Jaime presses his lips to Sansa’s in a brief, modest kiss. She moves her lips against his. _Fifth_.

Surprising, yet it’s all the consent he needs and without thought for what he is about to do, Jaime winds the ends of her hair around his hand, gently pulling until her head is tipping back, then trails his lips down the length of her neck, nipping and licking the salt from her skin until she gasps. Grazing his teeth over her collarbone, he pushes forward until she’s rested against the apple tree. Her hips stutter against his thigh and with a grunt of annoyance, Jaime struggles to lift her with his right arm.

Sansa rises a few inches from the ground before her feet are once again connected to the earth. Frustration wells up within him, his forehead pressing against hers as he puffs out a breath over her cheek. He wasn’t sure what he expected; laughter maybe, for her to mock him. The great Jaime Lannister can’t even use a sword anymore, let alone fuck. Then her hand is clasping around his neck. “Slowly,” she murmurs.

He nods and her hand threads through his hair. _She probably deserves better than this._ He knows she does. Sansa wasn’t common and he knew her type with their stories of great love and grand gestures, but life wasn’t a story. Life was getting fucked by a one handed man that means next to nothing to her just as she means nothing to him and he had to ask himself—why exactly was she here? Why was she allowing a man that was tainted by a lifetime of blood and regret touch her?

Despite the thoughts that were trickling through his mind, Jaime finds his hand collecting up the skirts of her gown until he holds them gathered at her hip and once again discovers himself to be in a position where he can do little else. Instead of frustration it’s anger that propels through his body. He has become utterly useless—he can’t do this and Sansa jumps when he slams his golden hand against the tree trunk, her eyelids blinking rapidly as he mutters profanities beneath his breath.

She slips out from between himself and the tree and he doesn’t try to stop her, doesn’t bother trying to give her an explanation. He wholly anticipates her to leave him here to wallow in the entirety of his hopelessness, so he’s astonished when he feels her hands on his arms, small thrums of pressure from her grip urging him to turn around. When Jaime faces her he does so with his head bowed. He feels humiliated—pathetic, and the last thing he wants is her pity, but it never comes.

Instead, Sansa drifts her hands to his chest where she fills them with his coat and begins to sink to the ground before him, giving small tugs with her hands as a clear indication that he should follow. Jaime flops against the tree, Sansa’s hands trembling as they settle upon his chest while she steadies herself over him. Smooth fingers ran up his neck, then those unsteady hands cup his face, drawing it up so he can meet her eyes with his own.

A small, tentative smile graces her lips and he finds himself calmed by it in a way. She is someone with little to no experience, and ignoring his own awkward fumbling she most likely has nothing else to compare it to. Jaime’s confidence is lit anew at this most evident assumption and instead of resigning to the idea of retreating from embarrassment, he pulls the Stark girl forward to settle more firmly in his lap.

“Do you know what you are about, Sansa Stark?” he questions mildly. She lowers her eyes, long lashes fluttering against her cheek as Jaime tucks his hand beneath the skirts of her gown that has puffed up around her thighs.

“I have kissed before,” she admits, seemingly shy in her own admission to a lack of experience.

“Joffrey?”

She nods but turns her head away, causing Jaime to leave his hand to rest halfway up her thigh. He gently kneads the smooth flesh there, fingers periodically dipping in to caress the inside of her leg.

“Did you love him?”

Her laughter startles him, but her amusement is forefront in the face of such a question. “Oh, on the contrary. I’m rather glad that he is dead. Does that shock you? It shocked me when I first realised it, I’ll admit. I do not think that I am such a good person.”

Jaime’s desire flags slightly at her omission; it is not what he expected—such a cold detachment from one that had always been so bright. She had seemed, for all intents and purposes, rather taken with the young prince when they had all journeyed to the north. But, he supposed, the beheading of her father coupled with the slaughter of the men and woman who had been in her families service rightfully dampened any affection she would have held for Joffrey.

“It seems that I have thoroughly ruined the moment, does it not?” She smiles at him tenderly and Jaime clears his throat, uncomfortable in his current situation and unsure on how to proceed. “I just want to feel something,” she confides in a low murmur, her smile replaced by the sinking of her teeth into her plump bottom lip while she drops her chin to her chest.

Something inside of Jaime shifts, perhaps a softening for the girl that is willing to dally with a man such as himself just to escape the darkness that lingers within her. He recognises that darkness all too well, knows how it can curl itself around your entire being until you’re left contemplating whether or not the light moments in life have been but a fantasy of your own making.

With more care than he thought he could possess, Jaime tilts his head forward and brushes his lips lightly against her forehead. “If that is your wish, it is something that I can assist with.” He has to reign in his smirk at such a sentiment for the words and the soft tone that he spoke them in is more befitting a man taking up a noble cause. Instead he is a man proclaiming that he will take away a young woman’s innocence and that is in no way noble.

Sansa hums under her breath with approval when Jaime’s hand finally continues its path up to hook his fingers into her smalls, giving them a small yank. “The removal of these will be imperative, I’m afraid. Or will that go against your maidenly sensibilities?” Now he can’t keep the smile from his face at the colour he imagines to be rising high on her cheeks; if only the night allowed him to see such details. Once again, though, she surprises him by standing up and slipping her hands beneath the silken skirts of her gown that rustle in the silence as she shimmies her smallclothes down her legs, delicately stepping out of them before lowering herself down to straddle his thighs.

Jaime wastes no time in picking up where he left off, his hand running over the soft, supple skin that marks her youth. She doesn’t shy away when he brushes the tips of his fingers through the coarse hair that grows between her legs, so he endeavours to delve further with a single finger sliding between the folds of her womanhood. She was nowhere near as aroused as he’d like her, only a hint of dampness coating the pad of his forefinger and he can’t help but frown; no, this would not do.

He finds the small bundle of nerves immediately, moves over it lightly in tight circles. Sansa grinds down before bringing her hands up to grasp at his shoulders. “Oh.” It would almost be a croon if she didn’t sound so surprised. Jaime dips his finger down again and she feels hotter, wetter, and he gathers it upon the tip before once more attacking her clit with the sure and practiced rub of his hand. She shifts, moving with him, fingers digging in through his doublet as she begins to pant out soft breaths in his ear.

He wants to taste her, to bury his face between her thighs and suck her clit into his mouth before lashing it with his tongue. Wants to rub the roughness of his stubble against the soft, sensitive skin of her thighs as he thrusts his tongue within her. To feel the pressure of her legs squeezing around his head while she trembles and shakes.

As it is, Jaime is unsure of how long their secrecy here will last and settles for having his mouth upon her chest. “Loosen your gown,” he demands in a rasp and she brings shaky hands to pluck and pull at the singular knot of silk that keeps her gown fastened. The sleeves slip from her shoulders to her elbows and the bust droops to her waist, his hand already gone from between her legs long enough to tug her shift down, exposing soft breasts and rosy nipples beginning to pucker as the delicate material tears.

There’s a gasp and a whimper when he takes a nipple into his mouth, flicks it with the tip of his tongue and runs his teeth over it then _sucks_. “Gods.” It’s quiet and breathy, but Jaime is sure he can hear her smile when she says it, her fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. She’s practically clinging to him like a bur when he finally penetrates her with first one, then two of his fingers, slowly sliding them into her cunt as to give her time to adjust to the intrusion.

It’s not long before she’s shaking, not long before he can’t think of anything other than burying his cock inside of her, because he is hard, aching, and gods he is ready. He wants to make her come first, though, so her curls his fingers and rubs while making a pass over her swollen clit with his thumb. Sansa bites into his neck when she hits her peak, and what would almost be a shrill scream is muffled by his flesh.

He could draw her out for longer but Jaime is at the point of desperation, being far too long since he has had anything but his own hand for pleasure and even then it is awkward and fumbling, and with his hand still wet and tacky from Sansa’s release he’s pulling at the cords of his breeches. Her hands follow, small and delicate, bunting his out of the way, her breathing still unrestrained as she frees his cock from its confinement.

Jaime sighs but the relief is short lived as Sansa is motionless above him and he’s losing his patience. He just _wants_. “Seven hells, Sansa, touch me,” he demands, teeth grinding and jaw clenched.

“I-I don’t know how,” she stutters out, but her fingers are there now, the tips of them hesitantly brushing over the head lightly; teasingly without meaning to be, and he bucks into her touch in search for me. It’s not enough, so he wraps his arm around her back and pulls her down atop his cock and grinds against her wet heat, his gold hand heavy and digging into her spine.

“This will hurt,” Jaime warns as he eventually takes himself in hand. He hears her suck in a breath and in that moment he truly feels bad for Sansa. Beautiful, innocent girl that she is. He knows she is worthy of more, but he is a selfish creature and not willing to forgo his own pleasure even if it’s at the expense of her honour. The best he gives her is a brush of his lips on the corner of her mouth and a pledge to be gentle. “No pain that isn’t necessary,” he promises and she nods her head as she presses her face to his neck.

Then she is sinking down on him, breathtakingly slowly, enveloping the tip of his cock, then lower, and she is so tight and hot that his head is falling back against the tree with a thud. “Fuck,” he groans as Sansa releases hisses of pain, but she doesn’t stop, not until she has worked her way down completely, breaking through the barrier that marks her virtue and as far as she can go.

She’s panting again, body letting off tremors yet tense. “What now?” she asks and Jaime almost laughs, but Gods she feels so good and he is terrified that he will be done in an upsettingly short amount of time. “Wait,” he tells her, for his sake as well as her own. It is agony not to fuck up into her, and Jaime begins to touch her instead; his nose running along the line of her jaw, the rough pads of his fingers stroking down her neck, over the bump of her clavicle and to her breast to skim over a nipple, then to her hip.

“I think,” she begins and he tugs at her bottom lip with blunted teeth and she gives him a small moan, “I’m ready now,” she finishes in a huff.

He takes her hand in his and guides it beneath the skirt of her gown to where they are joined. “Rise up,” Jaime instructs. With a hand gripping his shoulder she does and he is quick to press her fingers to his cock, pulling them up his length until there is only the head left inside her. “Stop,” he gasps, the smooth drag of her fluttering walls exquisite around him.

“Do you feel that?” he asks. “Stop there then lower back down.”

He’s pulling his hand away, back to clench her hip and Sansa is sinking, still slow, still not enough. Back up again and her fingers continue to follow the path of her cunt up his cock. He wants to watch and is cursing how irritatingly voluminous her gown is as she lets out a small groan. “It still hurts some.”

“It will,” he tells her. “It’ll get better. Just move faster.” His head falls forward, hiding his face against the flushed and heated skin of her neck because he is nearly begging this girl and Jaime Lannister _doesn’t_ beg, but then her momentum picks up, both hands at his shoulders now and her unsure and awkward movements become smoother, nearly flawless, and Jaime realises that he would beg like a bumbling dullard just as long as she doesn’t _stop._

“Like this?” she asks and he’s nudging at her jaw with his nose, lips and teeth working at her neck as he pulls her closer. “Perfect. You feel perfect,” he assures, because she does. So unbelievably tight, he hasn’t felt anything like it in years and then she is clenching around him as she pulls up and his gut tightens, every nerve ending becoming hyperaware and he knows that he is going to come.

“Fuck. Sansa,” he grounds out from between clenched teeth, his body going rigid and his hips jerking up as he releases inside her.

 

* * *

 

Jaime walks Sansa to the wing that houses her and her family. She is sore and aching between her legs and wants nothing more than to grimace in pain, but she walks beside him just as gracefully as she has been trained to, not a single hitch in her step and her manners composed. Her smalls are damp with a mixture of his seed, blood and her own fluids. She never knew that coupling would involve so much mess, but it had felt good at the beginning when he had used his hand on her.

That is something else she has never known, that it can feel good for the woman. Everyone had always made it sound like all there was to it was to lay there and do your duty while the man derived his pleasure and planted the hope of an heir within. He’d given her pleasure though, mind numbing pleasure that made her toes curl within her slippers and her entire body to tingle and heat up. She felt so alive. It was nothing short of astonishing and every time she caught Jaime’s eye, Sansa couldn’t help but lightly blush.

But they were just a few rooms away now and her reality was beginning to seep back in even with Jaime leaning against the wall; a small, satisfied smirk tweaking his lips. “I think, Lady Sansa, that I would enjoy your company in the future,” he tells her with all the ease of a man sated and brimming with virile confidence. Her chest clenches because after being betrothed to a monster, a spineless boy that had her father beheaded, who then held her captive and had her stripped and beaten for his own amusement, afraid that each day that passed would bring her one more step closer to death; after everything, she thinks she might enjoy his company, too. And that is exactly why she can’t do this.

“Is that so?” she asks, purposefully tart.

He raises an eyebrow at her air, his smirk falling into a soft smile. “Yes,” he replies. It’s so simple, no hidden connotations. Just _yes_. Sansa has come to appreciate simple.

“We will see, Ser Jaime.” And he leans closer, his hand raising up to touch her just as she steps out of his reach. “But do not hold your breath. I’d dislike to see you perish.” With that she drops into a curtsy while he eyes her in both amusement and confusion, and Sansa fears that he has taken her words as a challenge when they were not meant to be so.

Jaime bows to her in turn, his movements practiced and impeccable, and takes his leave of her, his eyes bright as he gives one last glance back at her before he turns the corner into an adjoining corridor. She lets out a bitter breath. She shouldn’t feel like she could become partial to him. It isn’t supposed to be this way, she should hate him. But there is no mistaking the way her heart had foolishly fluttered at him holding her close while brushing his lips over her neck for a time after he had found his relief within her.

Sansa shakes her head, trying to clear her mind of such impractical thoughts as she steps into her family’s quarters. If she had been paying attention she would have heard the arguing from the solar door. As it is, she stands still, startled, as she watches her mother and Robb bickering back and forth as Jeyne Westerling—nay, she is Stark, now—sits on in uncomfortable silence.

“She is your younger sister. Sixteen, Robb, and you have given her the task of a common slattern.” Sansa’s mouth pops open a little then closes, like a fish. She has never heard her mother speak so vulgarly before.

“She was a prisoner of war, her reputation is dashed to all seven hells. I’ve tried to make her a good match but nobody wants the girl that was stripped practically naked and beaten before all the court.”

Her mother is crying, big salty tears dampening her cheeks because she knows the truth of it. “So you want her to what, spread her legs for _that_ _man_ and hope he gets a child on her?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but he would have to marry her then, if he has any honour, and it would give us a positive tie to the Lannisters. The child would be the heir to Casterly Rock _and_ half Stark.”

“And if he has no honour? If he has no interest in her what so ever? What does she do then, hope that no one noticed her flirtations towards him?”

And then her brother his hanging his head. In defeat or shame, Sansa is not sure, and although she loves Robb dearly there is a black spot on her heart that stops her from feeling too much empathy for him. He knows just as well as she does that if he had only traded Ser Jaime for her in the beginning that none of this would be an issue.

She wants to go to Robb and hug him, assure him that he did the best he could, but that dark spot, that small bit of resentment holds her back and she is clearing her throat instead. Her mother is quickly wiping at her cheeks, a false smile coming to curl at her lips.

“The night has been long and I’m tired,” she announces. “I think I may retire for the evening.”

She is in her bed chamber before anyone can utter a word and when there is a knock and the door opens after her Sansa expects her mother, but it is her brothers little wife with an unsure smile on her lips that steps through the frame.

“Would you like help with your hair?” she asks sweetly, because she _is_ sweet, and so uncommonly kind.

Sansa agrees with a nod and she finds Jeyne to take great care in the task, finding every pin with gentle fingers and brushing her hair from root to tip until it shines.

“Robb tells me that Ser Jaime asked you to dance.”

“Yes,” Sansa confirms, not willing to give any more than necessary.

“Do you think it’s working then, putting yourself within his notice over the past fortnight?”

 _Yes_ , she thinks, _it did work_. But Sansa doesn’t want anyone to know that and she feels utterly ashamed by it. She doesn’t want to trick him. She doesn’t want to trick anyone. Why can’t she just go home? She doesn’t care if she never marries, she just doesn’t want to be _here_.

“I think he was just being polite,” she ends up saying, guilt setting in because she should be revealing what happened between her and Ser Jaime, but she just can’t bring herself to. It was a small escape from all the lies, plotting and death and she wants to treasure it, keep it as her own.

“Oh, well, it is our duty to endeavour to succeed,” Jeyne says with a reassuring smile.

It makes Sansa clench her fists into the skirts of her gown and she has to make the effort to control the sound of her breathing as it starts to puff from her nose, the bitterness from earlier rising up like sickly bile in her chest. _Duty_ , she thinks. _Was Robb doing his_ duty _when he bedded you after already agreeing to marry a Frey?_

Her returning smile is tight. “Yes, duty. Of course.” Maybe she would see Ser Jaime again, but with intentions of her own rather than her brothers and his _duty_.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh! This is the first sex scene I have written in forever. *chews nails*


End file.
